


Hearts Here to Steal

by peridium



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Amnesiac Dean, Frottage, M/M, Season/Series 11, a brief mention of bottom dean, accidental dirty talk, entirely contrived use of amnesia as a trope but at least it's a genre show so i have an excuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 05:48:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7087714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peridium/pseuds/peridium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“That you and I have been having sex,” Cas says.</p><p>Dean’s heart drops all the way to the motel basement. Because the fucked up thing is, they haven’t been. He would remember. (Diverges from canon around mid-season 11.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hearts Here to Steal

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man, this is the first thing I've finished in a while and it's ridiculous. I believe I owe [beenghosting](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beenghosting) for the original spark of an idea here. Sweet patient [xylodemon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon) and [inplayruns](http://archiveofourown.org/users/inplayruns) get a million points to their respective Hogwarts houses for putting up with me talking about this for at least eighty years.
> 
> The title is from Visqueen's "Hand Me Down." I'm on Tumblr at [sunbeamdean](http://sunbeamdean.tumblr.com).

Cas is actually looking pretty good.

“You’re looking pretty good,” Dean says. Because it’s still early as hell and his coffee’s too cheap to have kicked in after just four sips and because it’s actually true, strictly speaking. There are bags under Cas’ eyes, but those have been there since the day he blundered into a barn in Illinois. Otherwise, it’s like Rowena’s spell is finally letting him out of its clutches: he’s sitting up straight, his shoulders squarer than any regular dude’s; his hair falls in a dark, unruly swoop across his forehead; he smiles and looks up at Dean, clear-eyed.

“I feel good,” Cas says warmly. He’s holding a copy of the dinky little local newspaper he must have just picked up on the front steps, but in a series of quick motions, he folds it and sets it aside.

“Awesome,” Dean says, meaning it. If only one of them is going insane under the influence of an ancient, malevolent force, that’s almost a win by their standards.

There’s a quirk to the corners of Cas’ mouth that Dean’s not sure he’s ever seen before. You spend that much time hanging out with someone, you get familiar with their expressions, and this one’s new. It’s like something’s tugging Cas’ face into a smile against his will.

When Dean sits, Cas follows. Dean starts to ask, _Going somewhere_? But then there’s Cas looming over him, aiming that weird expression right down at Dean.

“Uh.” Dean bolts down two hefty swigs of coffee.

“Dean,” Cas says. The weight of his voice knocks Dean back in time to Pontiac again. The way Cas says his name, it comes out heavy, laden with meaning Dean’s not allowed to understand.

Dean hears his own throat click as he swallows. “You need something? I got some DVDs if you’re running out of good stuff on Sam’s Netflix.”

Cas really knows how to emphasize a silence. The moment before he answers practically drips with how quiet it is.

“Listen.” His face falls. Not far, but far enough that it’s familiar to Dean again, the mournful shapes of his eyelids and the furrows between his brows. “Dean,” he says again. “I don’t intend to push you.”

“Huh?”

Cas’ lips press together. They’re about to form words, and Dean’s about to lean up so he can catch them close enough to Cas to figure out what they mean, when Sam stumbles in.

“Huh,” he repeats Dean, looking at the two of them.

“Sammy,” Dean says, forgetting to disguise his relief. “No offense, but the beauty sleep ain’t working.”

Cas’ fingertips brush Dean’s shoulder as he turns and claims his usual seat without looking back at Dean.

“That’s probably ’cause I didn’t sleep,” Sam says. Their casual insults roll off pretty easily nowadays, now things are sorta okay between them. “Or, I don’t know. I had these dreams.”

Cas raises his eyebrows, attending, but Dean’s stomach drops down. Way down. “Don’t go there,” he says.

Disheveled, objectively kind of ridiculous in his Wal-Mart wife beater and his ragged sweats, Sam levels one of his steely looks at Dean from where he’s booting up the coffeemaker afresh. “I know when dreams mean something.”

“Yeah, something _bad_.”

“You think everything means something bad!”

Dean’s pretty sure he hears Cas grunting assent across the table. Friggin’ traitors. “Am I wrong about that? Think about it, man.”

Sam sets his jaw, his stubborn _there’s no way to explain to you how wrong you really are_ expression. “That’s a self-fulfilling prophecy and I’m kinda tired of prophecies.”

When Dean glances to Cas for help, he gets nothing. Cas is scanning the newspaper, so fast that Dean would assume he was faking if it was anyone else. His features are somber again, but there’s a lingering rosiness in his cheeks, and Sam is making his coffee with so much self-righteous clacking, and Jesus, Dean is done with these two.

“I’ll be in the real world if either of you need me,” he snaps. It’s easy to storm off with nothing but coffee in his hands and a headache creeping up the muscles alongside his spine, toward the back of his head.

Sam may be nursing his God fantasies and Cas may be all patched up and ready to violate Dean’s personal space, but Dean can nearly feel Amara’s cold breath on his neck, and he’s got a lot of running to do before she loses his trail.

 

Dean’s head hurts even worse the next morning. His mouth is dry and fuck if he knows where his pants went. Fueled by instinct, he pats around the bed waiting for the telltale clink of beer bottles—maybe even his old buddy Jack—but there’s nothing. Just flannel and his own harsh breathing in the dark.

He hauls himself up by his elbows and, halfway through, cringes. “Fuck,” he mutters, patting at his own crotch. Sticky. A thirty-six-year-old coming in his boxers in the middle of the night, like evading the advances of primordial evil isn’t shitty and embarrassing enough.

Not even flipping all the lights on helps Dean figure out where the hell his jeans went.

He kind of wants to hurl. Wet dreams are supposed to be good ones, fleeting sense memories of things he wants, warm bodies and gleaming smiles.

The only thing he can remember right now is Amara. Not her face, not even her voice, but the feeling of her. The way she sucks all the will and life out of him; the way she goes all Darkness on him, makes him want nothing so bad it feels like something. It feels like a promise, a guarantee of restfulness that he hasn’t felt in years. If that's what—if he's really reacting this way to—fuck, _fuck_.

Bile rises in Dean’s throat. “I don’t want this,” he mutters as he peels his underwear off. He _doesn’t_ fucking want this. He doesn’t want Amara and he doesn’t want to want her, not the way he’s scared Cas will think it is if Dean tells him about this feeling.

Fuck. Cas. They’re in a weird place right now and it’s embarrassing as hell to admit how scared he is of Cas’ judgment.

Shoulders tight and spine too bowed, Dean yanks on fresh underwear and a ratty pair of sweats and slinks out toward the war room. They leave the lights on there, all hours; he could use light right now, even if it’s artificial.

“Good evening, Dean.”

Dean shuts his eyes for a second, hard enough that the insides of his eyelids go black. The world feels like it wants to tip around him. “Hey, Cas.”

There’s no warning—there’s just Cas, right up in his space. Dean can smell coffee on his breath and, when he opens his eyes, see the stubble growing in under his lower lip. “You recovered quickly,” he says, the fingers of one hand brushing Dean’s side.

“Huh?” Dean’s so fucking bad at this.

Cas’ eyes narrow. There’s a flicker of emotion in them, one Dean’s apparently too obtuse to interpret. “You seemed quite worn out,” he says. The spaces between the words come slowly, like there’s a whole ’nother sentence under this one that Dean’s not hearing right.

“I,” Dean tries. Yeah, he guesses that’s true. “Uh. Yeah. Well. Bad dream.”

Dean wishes like hell he could read the tightening set of Cas’ mouth and the too-quick flutter of Cas’ eyelashes. “I see.”

“Cas,” Dean says helplessly. “I’m trying here.”

It’s like flipping a switch. Cas’ eyes darken and soften and his mouth makes this shape, this curve that Dean wishes he knew how to look away from. “Okay,” Cas says. He touches Dean’s arm, palm skimming his bicep. “I know.”

 _The fuck is happening here,_ Dean almost says. He nods instead, shaky. There’s a book open on the table, one of Sam’s bottles of seltzer water half-empty next to it. He goes to that and submerges himself.

 

“I don’t wanna hear it.”

“I don’t _care_.” Sam’s as close to yelling as he ever gets without full-on tipping into one of his rage freakouts. “I don’t actually answer to you.”

Dean’s gut feels leaden and cold. “I’m not asking you to—to heel, or whatever. I’m just asking you to stop acting like you’re about go charging back to Hell.”

Sam pushes both his hands through his hair, raking it back from his forehead. He’s starting to curl in on himself where he’s leaning against the hallway wall, bringing him down almost to Dean’s height. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

They’re probably gonna wake Cas up, if Cas even sleeps. He slips out of Sam’s room when Sam needs it, but there’s Netflix on the den TV too. Dean’s betting on him being the first dude in history to actually watch all of television, ever.

“Then what are you doing,” Dean says instead of asking, flat.

“I’m just…” Sam lets out a breath and looks Dean in the eye. “Honestly? I want something to make sense for me, too.”

“What—”

“I’m happy for you,” Sam says. “Seriously.”

“Dude,” Dean says. “You’re _happy_ for me?” It’s not like Dean’s happy for himself. Amara wants their bond to feel purposeful and fated, he gets that much—but he’s not willing to play along.

“Yeah,” Sam says. “But this thing with the Darkness, I gotta take responsibility no matter what’s going on with you. If this is big enough for God to take an interest, it’s big enough for me to step up to the plate.”

“Sammy.” Always Dean’s last resort.

“I’ll be fine,” Sam says easily. They’re both too good at that lie.

Dean knows his next line: _We’ll figure it out._ He just can’t figure out how to say it to Sam’s retreating back and shoulders.

 

This isn’t the hottest Dean’s ever felt before tackling an early-morning stakeout, but it’s not the shittiest either. A handful of Ibuprofen and some convenience store coffee down the hatch and he can almost ignore the pounding pain at the base of his skull.

They’re splitting up, which hopefully isn’t gonna get them killed by the New Hampshire-based rougarou they’ve been tracking for three days. Sam’s flashlight flares from around the corner, where he’s checking out the bedrooms and the linen closet.

Cas’ breath puffs warm against the back of Dean’s neck as he leans in.

“Hey,” Dean mutters. “You ready for this?”

“Mm.” A second of silence, then—holy fuck—the gentle pressure of Cas’ hand resting at Dean’s hip. “Be safe,” Cas says, and he presses a kiss to the hinge of Dean’s jaw.

The adrenaline that spikes through Dean’s whole system actually proves kind of handy as they wrap up the hunt. He’s quicker on the draw, his senses firing on all cylinders. The quarter-inch square of skin that felt the dry brush of Cas’ lips feels overwarm the whole damn time. He’s fucking ridiculous, desperate to know what Cas thinks he’s doing and way too scared to ask.

It goes okay. No one gets bitten, and Dean’s ankle will be fine in a couple days. The world’s out one more menace, which’ll maybe be enough accomplishment to put Dean to sleep tonight.

“Thanks,” he says while they’re parked next to each other in the motel bathroom scrubbing blood off their hands. Sam’s hairdryer is going loud in the bedroom, enough to keep Dean from being overheard.

Cas flashes a smile Dean’s way. “Oh? For what?”

Dean’s mouth goes dry. He scrubs harder at the dirt under his nails for an excuse to look at something other than the crooked tilt to Cas’ mouth.

“Dean,” Cas says lowly. “I know this is difficult for you.”

What the hell isn’t difficult for Dean? He’s mastered the art of making things harder for himself. “For helping with the hunt,” he manages, sounding like a tool, “and, uh. Sticking around.”

Cas licks his lips. “I think you know the way I feel.”

Dean fucking _wishes_. His stomach’s practically whirling in place, his blood rushing in his ears. The bathroom’s pretty tiny, so even trying to step to the side to avoid Cas’ gaze has their shoulders bumping together, the toe of his boot tapping against the toe of Cas’. “I always was a pretty crappy student,” he says.

There’s Cas right up close again. Now his mouth’s curled into a faint frown, his brows drawn down and together. He touches Dean’s face with cool, wet fingertips. “Dean,” he says, slowly like he’s trying to get through to him. “I’ve been trying not to push you.”

“I don’t, uh.” Dean stops, scowls. He’s been having this feeling like everyone’s operating on a higher plane than him, like he’s missing something really obvious. “Buddy, I gotta be honest. I got no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Last night,” Cas says.

“What?” Dean says.

In that moment, Sam’s hairdryer powers down so it’s just—completely silent, completely awkward.

“Last night,” Cas repeats. He squints at Dean.

“Last night I had a couple beers, dicked around on Google ’cause we’re still spinning our wheels on this Darkness crap, and passed out early.”

Sam’s head, freshly coiffed, pokes through the half-open door. “It’s okay, dude. I know.”

“Know _what_ ,” Dean says through gritted teeth.

“That you and I have been having sex,” Cas says.

Dean’s heart drops all the way to the motel basement. Because the fucked up thing is, they haven’t been. He would remember.

“Yeah.” Sam laughs, swiping his toothbrush from the counter between Dean and Cas. “Thanks for trying to keep it down, but I’m not totally unobservant.”

Or maybe he wouldn’t.

 

Dean’s going nuts. 

He’s gotta be. He’d fucking _remember_.

He’d remember what it felt like to kiss Cas. Hell, he’s been watching Cas’ mouth for years now, the shapes it makes when he smiles, when he frowns, when he’s worried, even when he’s just sitting back and observing.

There’s no way on God’s piece of shit earth he’d kiss that dumb pink mouth and then go and forget about it.

“There’s no fucking way,” Dean says out loud. He sounds feeble even to himself.

Sam’s face is all crinkled up, worry and confusion at the same time. Outside, Cas is pacing up and down the hallway. It’s not a big motel, so every few minutes, Dean hears the shuffle of his feet on the carpet.

“This isn’t funny,” Dean adds.

“I know,” Sam says from his perch on the other queen bed. He’s not remotely close to laughing. “It’s not a joke.”

Fuck. Dean’s hands are shaking when he drags them down his face. “Me and Cas?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you about that,” Sam says. “I know it’s, uh. I get that the way you feel about him—like I said. It’s no joke.”

Dean holds his breath for too long. All it gets him are sparks behind his eyes and a burn in his chest when he lets it out.

“This is what I was talking about,” Sam adds. “Something that makes sense. This—you two, I mean. It’s a no-brainer.”

“Yeah,” Dean snaps, “like my brain’s friggin’ malfunctioning and I got no memory of any of it. Real romantic.”

“We’ll figure it out.” The Winchester family motto.

Dean swallows around the lump in his throat. “I gotta talk to Cas.”

 

“You and me,” Dean says.

Cas’ hands shift, clasping each other. He’s restless, fidgety like Dean’s never seen him. “Us,” he says lowly. His fingers might have touched Dean’s face. His thigh might have pressed, bare, against Dean’s own.

Looking at any part of Cas makes the inside of Dean’s head buzz like the washed-out static on a TV that’s lost its rabbit ears. He stares at the floor. “I swear I’m not jerking you around. If I could remember—”

He really, really wishes he could remember.

Cas makes a soft noise, like sympathy he doesn’t know how to offer. “I thought it was just… difficult for you. I wanted to give you space. Time.”

“Meaning you figured I was just such a repressed jerk I was acting like nothing ever happened, what? On purpose?"

Cas’ eyes squeeze shut for a moment, and his lips press together. “I couldn’t be sure.”

Dean’s heart keeps thumping at the bonds of his ribcage, steady and cold. “I wouldn’t. Just so you know.”

Wetness lurks at the corners of Cas’ eyes before he blinks once, twice, and shifts closer to Dean. They’re both sitting at the edge of the bed, every inch between them too deliberate. Cas’ knuckles graze Dean’s thigh. “There’s, ah.” He clears his throat and the movement there draws Dean’s eyes to his open collar. “There’s really nothing?” He taps two fingertips against Dean’s temple, cocking his head just a hair to one side.

“I _wish_ ,” Dean breathes, the confession tumbling out way too easy.

Cas moistens his lips with his tongue. “You kissed me,” he says. His teeth drag against his lower lip like the echo of a memory, one that, it turns out, is his alone. “In the hallway. We were arguing about Metatron and the Darkness. You were worried about me.”

Dean could swear he remembers that argument. Part of it. Telling Cas, _You can’t afford to take moral stands for shits and giggles when you’ve got a target on your back and Metatron’s always had it out for you._

“You took my hands,” Cas says. The words roll out of his mouth slow and dreamy.

Yeah, Dean doesn’t remember doing that. All he remembers is _wanting_ to.

“Okay.” Afraid he’ll snap Cas out of it, Dean touches the back of Cas’ wrist right above where his hand is cupped next to Dean’s knee on the bedspread. “What next?”

“You told me you were scared. Afraid of what the Darkness could do—to the world and to you specifically. Afraid that Sam was, or is, going somewhere you can’t follow.” Startlingly, Cas chuckles. “You called yourself a selfish bastard.”

“Sounds about right.”

Cas curls his hand around Dean’s knee and squeezes. “If I had known before then how much my presence meant to you, I would’ve tried harder to stick around.”

There’s heat bleeding through Dean’s jeans where Cas’ palm rests heavy and assured. “So, I.” It sticks in his throat, then he powers through: “I kissed you.”

The smile that curves Cas’ mouth is totally worth any and all embarrassment. “Yeah, you kissed me. It—I suppose it seemed like the logical progression of events. You wanted me to understand something you were having trouble saying out loud, and I’ve hoped you would kiss me since we met anyway.”

“Holy shit,” Dean says.

“I assumed it was obvious.”

Dean slides his hand over Cas’, slipping his fingers into the spaces between Cas’. “Was it awesome?”

Cas’ smile widens easily. He rubs his thumb over the length of Dean’s pinky finger. “You were so nervous that you bit the side of my mouth. I’m almost positive I was too enthusiastic with my tongue. You wouldn’t let go of my hands and I nearly fell over.” His voice dips lower as he says, “So yes, it was awesome.”

Blood rushes in Dean’s ears, too loud. He can tell he’s staring at Cas’ mouth and he can tell it’s weird, but he can’t look away.

Cas’ jaw tightens. “I’ll remember,” he says. “Guaranteed. And I won’t grow tired of retelling it to you.”

“Fuck,” Dean says, “am I gonna forget this conversation too?”

The levity drains from Cas’ expression. “I don’t know. Even if you were predisposed to amnesia, this isn’t how it works naturally in the human brain. Something—someone—is interfering.”

Dean’s gut roils uneasily. He tightens his grip on Cas’ hand. “I bet I can guess who.”

 

The three of them hunker down over the dregs of complimentary continental breakfast. Fancy digs these days.

“I don’t think we should jump to conclusions,” Sam starts. He’s been cutting his pineapple into increasingly tiny slices, one of his wackier nervous habits.

Dean groans. “Sam—”

“But,” he finishes, “in this case, it’s pretty much definitely Amara. I’ve heard of some supernatural amnesia—you know, there are spells, whatever. But this _specific_? I mean, you’re not missing anything else, right?”

“I wouldn’t friggin’ know, would I!”

Cas nudges Dean’s foot under the table. Shit, that’s a thing they can do now. Dean hesitates way too long, just long enough to make it weird, before he taps Cas’ foot in return.

“Sorry,” he adds.

“I haven’t noticed anything else missing,” Sam says. “How about you, Cas?”

The sound of Cas swallowing a mouthful of mediocre coffee is audible. They’re the only people still lurking around unless you count the motel staff hovering, waiting to clean up after them. “No,” Cas says slowly. He’s watching Dean, a crease between his brows. “Whatever this is, it seems bound and determined to keep Dean from knowing that our relationship has… changed.”

“Jesus.” Dean rubs at his temple, all down his jawline. “Okay, but she’s—God’s sister, whatever that means. Couldn’t she yank whatever she wanted from my head anytime? I should be a gibbering idiot right now. I should’ve already forgotten that I’ve been forgetting stuff.”

While Sam rubs thoughtfully at his chin, Cas chimes in again: “If you were an easy target for her, she wouldn’t harbor such a fascination with you. There must be limitations on her ability to erase your memories.”

There’s a pause. Dean spears an entire strip of bacon on his fork and eats it in one go.

Reluctantly, he remembers stained boxers and a whole lot of shame. “I, uh.” He clears his throat. “I think she gets to me when I’m sleeping.”

Cas raises his eyebrows. Dean chugs some coffee for good measure in case he’s right. “I mean—you and me—me and Cas, that is. It’s gotta be happening at night, right? And then—I wake up and I got nothin’. Shitty-ass morning after.”

“Defenses are lowered,” Sam says slowly. “I guess that’d make some sense.”

Dean knocks back the last of his morning java. “And I guess I just won’t sleep for a while.”

“Dean,” Cas says, low and warning.

His veins are already starting to buzz with adrenaline and too much caffeine, but Dean slings a grin Cas’ way. “I’ve pulled longer hauls.”

The only admonishment he gets is Cas squeezing his thigh, hidden from Sam’s sight by the tabletop. It kicks Dean’s heart rate up another four notches.

“Let’s go home,” Sam says. “Sorry, Dean, but we gotta hit the library.”

 

They book it.

Sam wanted to drive, but Dean figured that was pointless. He can’t sleep anyway. Weird, but the thought of a primordial being of void rooting around in his consciousness while he’s snoring away isn’t really doing it for him.

It’s a long drive. After their third rest stop, Sam and Cas trade out so Sam can snooze in the back while Cas takes up the spot to Dean’s right.

It’s dark, getting darker. They’re somewhere in the middle of Ohio and another godforsaken soybean field when, all at once, Sam snores, the radio jolts with static, and Cas sits up straighter in his seat, coat rustling as he moves.

“I think,” Cas says, “you were worried about moving too fast.”

Dean sucks in a startled breath. His eyelashes are gritty and his back hurts. Cas can probably tell he’s starting to really flag.

“But I didn’t care,” Cas adds.

“This is—uh.” Dean takes one hand off the wheel to cough into his fist. “The real first time. How many, exactly—”

“Four.” Cas shifts in his seat, attention trained on Dean’s face. Dean keeps his eyes on the road—mostly. “But yes, I’m telling you about our first time.”

The radio kicks back into full gear, and Dean reaches to turn it down. His chest is tight.

“Your room was nearby,” Cas says, “and it was easy, I think. I hadn’t really known… well. I had known that I wanted to kiss you. I’ve looked at your mouth for years; how could I not know? But I hadn’t registered how good it was going to feel. Not only to kiss you, but to have you kiss me back.”

The music hums indistinctly in Dean’s ears. He licks his lips. “I guess I don’t have to tell you this,” he says, “but I wanted to kiss you, too. A lot. Real bad.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the flicker and curl of Cas’ smile. “I know that now. Once you regained your bearings, you were amazingly good at it. It doesn’t make sense, how it can feel.” A pause, a breath. “You pulled me into your room. Or maybe I guided you there, I don’t know. I’m supposed to have infallible memory, but it’s hard for me to remember anything about those moments besides your tongue in my mouth and your hands unbuttoning my shirt.”

Cas’ voice stays low, its raw, peaty-whiskey edge intact, but it shakes at the end of every sentence. Jesus.

“I was impatient.” Cas stops and chuckles under his breath. His hand drifts closer to Dean’s thigh across the front seat. “Not completely inexperienced, but new to feeling so desperate, I guess. I wanted—” He laughs again, an easier sound this time, almost incredulous. “I wanted to wrap myself around you. Every part of you. Dean,” he says, a wrenching tone dragging his voice down even further, “the way I feel about you. You can’t imagine.”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut for as long as he can get away with it. It’s about five seconds, and afterward he has to readjust the Impala so she’s centered in the lane. “I’ve got some idea, I think.”

Cas’ answering smile is close to audible. “I started to understand that,” he says. “You kept _smiling_ at me. Every time I kissed you. Every time I touched you, nearly.”

Right now, Dean kind of feels like crying. He considers asking just how many kisses he’s had with Cas and then forgotten, but he’s pretty sure hearing the answer would make him unfit to drive. Fucking embarrassing.

“It was damned endearing.” Close enough that Dean can feel the heat of it, Cas’ hand slides into place atop Dean’s thigh. A little shudder of arousal snakes down Dean’s spine. “You stopped and asked if I was okay with what we were doing, and that was charming, too.

“I’d seen a mind-numbing volume of sex acts from Heaven.” Cas shrugs. His hand slips higher on Dean’s thigh, its warmth soaking right through Dean’s jeans. “They usually seemed complicated, and half the time, one or more of the parties was reluctant. I could tell that it was a coveted exchange, but I could never tell why, not entirely. Not based on my observations.”

“Bummer,” Dean mutters. His dick is thinking real seriously about joining the conversation.

“This,” Cas continues, “wasn’t complicated. Neither of us was reluctant. The acts should have been unremarkable—your teeth on my nipples, the feeling as you grew hard in my hand—but they weren’t. They were—” He falters for the first time, clears his throat. Dean’s dick aches, a long, low throb against the seam of his jeans. “They were spectacular.”

Dean swears to fuck he has no control over the humiliating whine that comes out of his mouth despite his clenched jaw. “And we just—what? Jerked each other off?”

“You used your mouth.”

They’re at a turn, and Dean taps the brake a little too hard, turns the wheel a little too jerkily. “Cas—”

“It felt so good,” Cas says.

“Oh, God.”

Cas rubs the pad of his thumb along Dean’s hip. He’s staring at Dean, unabashed and dark-eyed, the weight of his gaze settling in Dean’s awareness even as Dean watches the road. “You really don’t remember this, do you.”

A pang splits Dean’s chest for a second. “I’ve been turning my own head inside out looking for this stuff, but no. I don’t.”

“I know that. But watching you react to the details, seeing you not know…”

Dean’s erection flags and his grip on the wheel tightens. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry, Cas.”

“I’m not looking for an apology,” Cas says, “I’m looking for the solution.” He pauses, pulling his hand back into his own space. “I’m looking to touch you with certainty that you won’t forget it.”

“Yeah, well. That, just now?” Dean gestures with his chin toward the space between them, so recently bridged by Cas’ hand on his leg. “That’s all I’ve got. And I don’t even want to lose _that_.”

Cas’ face is turned to the window now, but Dean hears the soft huff of his breath. “We’ll find a way to keep this, Dean.”

Dean drains some more coffee from the thermos propped against his other side. The longer he stays awake, the longer he can be sure of hanging onto the easy comfort of Cas’ palm only a layer of fabric from his skin.

 

“You’re sure it’s a sleep thing,” Sam says dubiously.

“No, I’m not _sure_ ,” Dean says. He squints into his coffee. His eyes hurt and his shoulders are knottier than a sailor with a BDSM habit. “Sure enough not to risk it, and it’s working so far. I think.”

Sam scrubs a hand across his face. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Cas and I are working on it. Geez, I really want to tell you to go take a nap.”

“Yeah, yeah, I look like shit.” There’s gotta be more caffeine than blood in his system at this point. “Spare yourself the effort of pointing it out. I _feel_ like shit.”

“Here.” Sam plunks down a plate in front of Dean. Standard-issue ham sandwich, extra lettuce because that’s the way Sam is. “Just… look, man. Try and hang in there.”

The food tastes like crap. Not Sam’s fault, and Dean chews it and swallows it anyway. “You too. Don’t pull a fast one and go looking for God while I’m zoning out over here.”

The request makes Sam hesitate, but then he nods. He squeezes Dean’s shoulder and says, “I _know_ you’re real, man. You and Cas. I’ll help you two work this out before anything else.”

There’s not a lot Dean can do when he’s this out of it. They’ve been home almost twelve hours and Dean’s been chugging coffee the whole time, knuckling at his burning eyelids harder with every time they start to droop.

He’s keeping himself awake chasing his own head in circles. Looking for the lost memories. He’s had Cas’ dick in his mouth and he doesn’t know what it tasted like or how it felt on his tongue, how much his jaw stretched. Hell, he’s seen the way Cas looks right after an orgasm and he still doesn’t know whether all the daydreams of Cas smiling at him, open and soft, have been true to life.

Dean’s been letting his mind wander a lot lately. Letting it pry open the parts of him that want to keep Cas, want to keep him for real and for good. That want to make sure all the forces of Heaven and Hell and everywhere else know Cas is under his roof, his protection.

Sam left, and he wasn’t even tuned in to reality long enough to notice it happening. Fuck, he’s tired.

His chin drops, his eyes fall shut, and Amara laughs at him.

“What a lovely distraction this is,” she says. She reaches for Dean, her eyes as guileless as they are blank. “But you’re mine.”

“Hey—” Dean’s floating, unmoored and blurring at the edges. “Hey,” he tries again, and then there are things leaving him: what did Cas say their first kiss was like again? How many times have they been together?

Fuck.

 _You kept smiling at me,_ Cas had said.

“No,” Dean says.

Amara’s eyebrows form curious arches, her face too close to his own.

Dean reaches for Cas. Maybe just the memory of Cas. Hell, maybe it’s nothing more than the phantom pressure of Cas’ hands on him.

“Dean?”

Dean chokes on a gasp. Lukewarm coffee soaks through the front of his shirt as his mug rolls a few feet away on the floor, its handle clunking loudly every time it smacks the tiles.

“Dude,” he says.

“Yes.” Cas frowns, his lower lip caught between his teeth while he studies Dean. He’s pulled up another of the kitchen chairs so Dean’s boxed in where he’s wedged into the corner of the kitchen. “You fell asleep.”

Embarrassed, Dean grunts his confirmation. “Losing my edge, I guess.”

“And you, ah.” Cas is visibly hesitant. He almost touches Dean’s shoulder, but his hand stops halfway there and he just looks, the shadows under his eyes dark.

Dean’s head stays fuzzily blank. He licks his lips, the nerves in his palms crackling when he notices Cas following the gesture with his gaze.

“Please,” Cas says lowly.

“Oh,” Dean says. “Oh—shit! I didn’t. Uh. Yeah.” He’s so fucking out of it. Apologetically, he hooks two fingers around Cas’ still-hovering wrist, feeling the hum of a pulse there. “Yeah, I remember. I mean, I remember about forgetting. Dammit.”

Like magic, Cas’ features lose their starkness, the edge of what Dean realizes had been fear. “Did the Darkness try to take me away again?”

Not take them, take _him._

“I, uh.” Dean’s mouth is dry and his teeth taste like the dregs at the bottom of the coffee pot. He rests his thumb against Cas’ palm. “Yeah, I think so. There’s—I basically remember, but I can see the blank spots now. Guess she didn’t have time to do it clean. I just nodded off for a second.”

Cas tugs his hand out of Dean’s awkward grasp. Dean’s ready to feel like a tool, but then it’s back, Cas sliding his fingers into the empty spaces between Dean’s so they’re holding hands, palm to palm. “You prayed to me. I heard you—barely. If I hadn’t been only two rooms away, I’m not sure it would have worked.”

“That wasn’t on purpose.” A flash of heat rises to Dean’s face. Cas’ hand is bigger than his.

Cas squints. “You were thinking about my hands.” Apparently that makes Dean’s face change, because he adds, quick, “I wasn’t listening in—you were broadcasting.”

“And it worked.” Cas came. Cas’ presence dispelled Amara’s hold on Dean’s head. “Mostly.”

The corners of Cas’ eyes crinkle up; his mouth slants into a small smile. “It’s something. Although I could have found some fun in retelling it all to you again. The way you reacted the first time was enthralling.”

Dean coughs and ducks his head. “Hey, you still gotta tell me about the other times. Uh, thanks for the rescue.”

Cas kisses the tangle of their fingers, quick and casual. “You know I’ve always liked doing that.”

 

“Okay.” Sam sighs, one of his huffy little shows of overdramatic irritation. “So I’ve got nothing useful. Like I said, there’s lots of ways to induce amnesia—spells, potions, whatever. I mean, we’re not exactly strangers to creepy-crawlies messing with our heads.

“Amen,” Dean mutters. He thinks of the steady creep of horror as the memories of Hell came back, of Sam digging at a never-healing wound to keep his grasp on reality.

“Thing with Amara is, she’s—okay, she’s not new. Obviously. She’s really, really old. Which,” Sam adds, “is kind of the problem. She made her exit way before history even started to consider getting itself recorded.”

Cas stirs. His knee bumps Dean’s; they’re sharing the low-slung middle of the den’s couch. “You’re leading up to something,” he says.

Sam laughs. “Yeah, okay. Dean’s not gonna like it.”

“I doubt you like it,” Cas says, “or that I’m going to like it. We never like our own plans.”

“I think we need to, uh.” One more awkward pause, then Sam spits it out: “I want to ask Dean to run an experiment. We’ve got nothing right now—no idea how this is working.”

“You want to go all scientific method on my sex amnesia?” Dean says incredulously.

Sam groans, rubbing a hand across his forehead. “I know it sounds shitty.”

“It sounds like it’s gonna blow up in our faces and scramble my brains!”

“What exactly do you mean by running an experiment?” Cas asks. He’s leaning forward, bracing a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“She likes Dean,” Sam says. “She’ll come if he calls her, I’m willing to bet. I want to see what happens if she comes to him and you—Cas—you’re already there. Reaching to you got Dean keeping his memories once, so let’s see if your physical presence can do us one better and get us answers. Like, can she still get rid of memories that feature you if you’re right there with her?”

Pain flares across Dean’s left temple. He sinks lower in his seat, but he keeps his chin up. “Before I agree to this,” he says, “I gotta tell you guys, I, ah…”

This is fucking embarrassing. Cas rubs his shoulder encouragingly, so Dean clears his throat and keeps going.

“I dunno how to explain—I just. I get weird around Amara. The Darkness, I mean. She sort of zaps my brain cells and it’s not—” He scowls down at his own lap. “She starts seeming like a good idea.”

“What starts—” Sam stops asking the question before he can really start. Something about Dean’s face, maybe. “Oh,” he says instead. “I get it. I think.”

“It’s coercion,” Cas says quietly. His fingers fan out against Dean’s shoulder blade. “She’s using the pre-forged connection between the two of you to her advantage.”

“Yeah, hence, you know.” Dean taps his forehead. “Swiper started swiping. Just the latest trick in her fucking-with-Dean arsenal, I guess.”

Sam actually looks pretty torn. He’s making this hangdog face at Dean, his hands spread palm-up in his lap. “You don’t have to. I just—if we don’t figure out how this memory stuff works, she could do even worse to you. I didn’t bust my ass getting the Mark off your arm to have it keep coming back to bite us this way.”

Yeah, sure he doesn’t have to. “I’m gonna do it,” Dean says.

Next to him, Cas heaves a small sigh and sits up straighter.

 

It doesn’t work the first time.

Dean feels like a colossal chump anyway, sitting on the hood of the Impala with Cas next to him and waiting. Trying to think Darkness-style thoughts. He touches the inside of his right elbow a few times, the clean spot where the Mark used to sit. It still looks weird, blank like that.

They’d gone out of the bunker in case that’d make it easier for Amara to find them. What actually happens is the sun eventually goes down and then they’re sitting in the dark like idiots. The drive home, blessedly short, almost lures Dean to sleep—Cas is behind the wheel because Dean’s too sleep-deprived to drive, and the rhythm of asphalt under the Impala’s tires is the world’s most familiar lullaby.

Fighting against an insidious half-doze, he hears her. Laughing at him. It’s not mocking when she does that—it’s gentle, fond, like she’s enjoying a distant joke and waiting for Dean to catch on.

 _Not,_ she says, _him. Not that thing._

His tendons are tight with defensive irritation as he jolts awake. Cas has never been a thing.

 

They break out the fancy warding and the trickery the next time around.

“Amara,” Dean says. He slides his hands into his pockets, glancing from one storeroom wall to the next. Off-white and bare; the sigils are hidden beneath fresh, sloppily-applied layers of paint. Apparently, the Men of Letters went to the trouble of making this entire glorified closet just to house jars upon friggin’ jars of dried herbs. Dean’ll have to repaint it later, spruce it up some.

“Come on,” he adds. It still feels pretty stupid, so he rubs at the Markless spot again. He remembers the clean and uncomplicated sureness of the first moments of meeting the Darkness, of understanding what she offered and wanting it.

The room changes around him, no transition—just one thing, then the other, like switching channels on the TV. The only thing that stays is the cement floor under his feet, some proof their hastily-researched symbols are having an effect.

“Dean.”

The way she says his name is hard to resist: warm, completely certain, welcoming. “Yeah,” he says. “Me.”

She cocks her head, like she’s listening for something, and then strides up to him. She doesn’t move like a beautiful woman in a cocktail dress; she moves like the concept of inexorability taken form, implacable and intent as she reaches to hold his face with both hands. “You called me,” she says. “How nice of you.”

Dean wants to step back. He wants to shut his eyes and let her touch leach into his bones and take the weariness away. Hell, he’d let her take everything.

He splits the difference and keeps his eyes open while her presence bleeds into his space, and when she smiles at him, he thinks about Cas’ mouth on his jaw and he remembers how pissed he is that he can feel the blank space where their first kiss should be.

Wings flutter and Amara hisses, the sounds clashing so unattractively that Dean’s whole body shudders. He stumbles backward, totally undignified. Cas catches him, an arm looping around Dean’s waist.

“I told you,” Amara says, practically growls, “not that abomination.”

“Is that what this is?” Dean asks in disbelief. He’s still leaning on Cas, whose breath is steady against his cheek. “You think Cas is gross, so—so what?”

“He’s not for you.” Her eyes are narrowed and dark, the reality of her threatening to leak out around the edges of her Miracle-Gro vessel. “You’re not for _him_. I want you pure, Dean.”

“Dean has other earthly attachments,” Cas points out.

The shadows around Amara are long, her hands curled into fists at her sides. “Maybe so,” she says, “but you are the one he doubts. And certainty of you would close him off to me.”

“Oh my god,” Dean says, “he’s right here. Jesus, you’re yoinking my memories of hooking up with Cas because it’d mess with your insane plans for me?”

Amara’s lips thin. “I know you very well. I know what would put you out of my reach.” She makes a careless gesture, over Dean’s shoulder and toward Cas. “Knowledge of his feelings would be an unnecessary distraction.”

Cas’ fingers slip through Dean’s belt loop. He’s not about to be dislodged, and Dean kind of abruptly gets it. Cas’ body, all his, remade a million times so Dean didn’t have to lose him, planted solid and immovable where it’s holding Dean upright.

“This is the most necessary fucking distraction I could possibly think of,” Dean says. He reaches back, fumbling until he can squeeze Cas’ hip and hear the huff of surprised laughter in his ear. “But thanks for playing.”

“Dean,” she tries. She presses forward again, and the look in her eyes is a last-ditch effort. It would be easy. He’s so, so tired and she’s the promise of putting it all to rest forever.

“Cas.” Dean shuts his eyes. “Let’s go home.”

Cas snaps his fingers.

 

“You’re both intact. Right? You’re intact, right? Dean?”

“Sam.” Dean groans. At least eighty percent of his weight is still leaning on Cas. “Yeah. Hi.”

They’re back in that storeroom, the nondescript landscape of Amara’s conjuring gone. The lightbulb dangling from the ceiling swings back and forth, a pendulum coming to a slow stop.

“Hello, Sam. We’re both intact.”

“Hey, Cas.” Sam sounds so amazingly relieved that Dean’s a little scared to ask how long they were gone, or what it looked like when they disappeared. “What did—uh, I mean—dude, what the hell happened?”

The answer is gonna be so embarrassing. Dean dislodges from Cas far enough to raise an eyebrow and receive the same gesture in return. “I’ll tell you,” he says to Sam, “I swear. But can me and Cas have a little talk first?”

Curiosity, then relief pass over Sam’s face. “If you’re not out in an hour I’m coming back with Crowley on speed dial.”

Ugh. That kid really knows how to threaten Dean where it hurts. Dean owes him a lot of talking about his feelings and fresh veggies for dinner for a month.

The door clicks shut behind Sam.

“Thank you,” Dean says, because he’s afraid he’ll forget to otherwise. Niceties escape him sometimes, but Cas earned this one and then some.

Cas considers him. “How are you feeling?”

Dean laughs. His head is swimming, he’s so tired. His hands won’t stop shaking. “I feel like—like I got played. But kind of like I ended up pulling out a bottom-of-the-ninth win. I mean.” He hesitates, realigning his body to face Cas head-on. The single-source lighting hits the side of Cas’ face just right, makes him starker and prettier at the same time. “Your… feelings. The feelings that I wasn’t supposed to know about.”

The corners of Cas’ mouth twitch upward. “Ah, yeah,” he says. “Those feelings.”

A knot lodges in Dean’s throat. “Throw me a bone,” he says.

“Okay,” Cas says, and he doesn’t wait. He tips his chin up and kisses Dean right on the mouth.

There’s an idiotic second where Dean’s fried brain can’t figure out what to do. He goes stock-still, his mouth too dry and his eyes too open. Then there’s Cas, back with a second kiss, patient and unwavering, and Dean remembers Cas has the advantage of knowing Dean’s almost definitely gonna kiss back. And hell, Dean’s not about to disappoint him.

So he leans into the gentle press of Cas’ attention, sighing into Cas’ mouth. If this is the first time this feeling’s gonna stay inked onto Dean’s memory, he’s making the most of it. He’s angling his head for the easy slide of their mouths open against each other, kissing Cas eager for his first taste of Cas’ tongue, enjoying the solid curve of Cas’ spine under his palms.

“If this—” Cas gasps when Dean dips his head to suck at the skin under his ear and fuck, it’s a good noise. “If this is armor against the Darkness,” he says, tilting his head to offer Dean more throat, “then I’m honored to take up a place at the forge.”

There’s a mostly-empty bookshelf right behind Cas, so Dean grabs his shoulders and swings him around instead, the better to press him up against blank, warded wall. He’s a tower of heat and welcoming hands that pull Dean close; Cas sighs this time when Dean bites at his lower lip and then kisses him one more time.

The sleep deprivation’s making everything slow and blurry, but it’s sort of okay. It softens the instinctive shock when Cas takes hold of Dean’s hips and readjusts him with no fanfare, just yanking Dean into place so that Cas’ thigh is between his legs and the long, lean muscle is right there. It lets him curl around Cas, going with the bone-deep weariness that’s got gravity tugging too hard at his limbs, lets him tuck his face against Cas’ jaw and nose at his stubble. “Feels real good,” he says into Cas’ ear, a stray curl of dark hair brushing his cheek.

“Mm.” Cas’ broad hands cup Dean’s ass. He shifts Dean again, a couple degrees to the left and then—“Oh,” Cas exhales, hot against the rise of Dean’s cheekbone, “oh, yes.”

“Tell me,” Dean says. Cas’ dick is fitted to the hollow of his hip, chasing friction so close to Dean’s own erection that his breath catches in his chest with every time they rock together. It’s clumsy; Dean’s gonna do better next time. “If me knowing is how I remember, I want—I need—Cas, please.”

“ _Dean._ ” Cas says it like it’s the entirety of an answer. He kisses Dean’s face—under his eye, his chin, his mouth, quick and open. “You were the beginning of everything for me. I’ve wanted you for years and loved you for longer.”

They move again, Dean’s hands scrabbling at Cas’ shirt, and when his dick rubs long and luxurious against Cas’, he buries a moan in the bare skin at the open vee of Cas’ shirt.

“Duh,” Cas adds.

“Asshole,” Dean breathes. His fingers twitch, curling themselves deeper into the fabric of Cas’ shirt, closer to skin. Everything’s simultaneously distant and too close, too sharp, too much. He’s just gonna ride this to its conclusion, smug and full up on the knowledge that he has Cas. That the hoping and wanting and second-guessing wasn’t all for shit. That when he bears his hips down against Cas’, when he drops a messy kiss to the side of Cas’ neck, it’s wanted. All of it.

He comes at the height of an easy crest, his balls drawing up and his breath stuttering into the hollow of Cas’ throat, which shines with sweat. Cas is right there with him, drawing long sweeps down the sides of Dean’s spine with his palms. “Don’t forget this,” he gasps into the humid air by Dean’s ear, and Dean whines, drags him into a real kiss, and says _yeah, okay, I know, I’m never gonna let this one go, I promise_ into the stunned-slack well of Cas’ mouth.

“I know now,” Dean says. His words knock into each other, slurred with exhaustion. Cas has Dean’s body tucked tight against his own. “I mean—before. You didn’t… we were hookin’ up, but we weren’t really… talking about it. Yeah?”

“Mm.” Cas’ fingers are cool in Dean’s hair. He smooths it down, cupping the back of Dean’s hand. “We talked about it. Around it, rather. Not like this.”

Dean chuckles, rubs his cheek against Cas’ shoulder like a punch-drunk cat. “Amara can’t fuckin’ have this. No one can. Just us.”

His head droops, his eyelids weighted. Cas kisses his forehead, and the world slides neatly out of Dean’s consciousness.

 

Cas snores, apparently.

Dean hauls in a deep breath and lets it out. His eyes are gummy and his lips are chapped all to hell. He’d expected to feel grimier, but he’s gonna guess Cas took care of that.

An exploratory stretch, eyes still closed, confirms that he’s in his own bed. He doesn’t remember getting here; he doesn’t remember much other than a weirdly fantastic orgasm with Cas’ arms around him and the shutter of fatigue closing around his higher faculties.

The door to the hall’s open and a long stripe of light falls across the lower half of Cas’ face. His eyelashes are dark crescents. He’s pillowing his head on his arm, the buttons at his cuffs undone and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

Shit, they’ve seen each other naked and Dean doesn’t remember that, either. Another memory to recreate with bells on.

Relief and triumph jostle each other for shotgun. He remembers. He actually has to blink back a threatening prickle of tears when he pokes at the memory of Cas stroking his back and finds it intact, the press of every long finger down the muscles of Dean’s back crystal-clear.

Cas grumbles. He stirs, smacking his lips, and all of him gets really distractingly long for a moment or three while he stretches, rolling onto his back.

“Hey.” Dean sinks back down until their faces are level.

“Mmph.” Cas’ brow furrows; his features smooth and clear when he opens his eyes. “Good morning, Dean.”

“Jesus, is it?”

“You were… amazingly tired.” Cas’ face is soft, his stubble coming in thick on his cheeks. He’s at full grace power, so Dean figures he’s doing that on purpose. “I wanted to stay nearby.” _In case_ , he doesn’t say.

“Aw, you’re just a lazy bastard, you don’t gotta lie to me.”

Cas indulges him with a laugh. The lines around his eyes deepen. “And you—?”

“Oh, yeah.” Dean knocks his nose against Cas’. “Yeah, I got that shit on lock.”

“I would have kept telling you,” Cas says, “as many times as you wanted to hear about it.”

“Yeah, I know.” Emboldened, Dean reaches to take hold of Cas’ hand. “I’m still missing, what, three whole fucks?”

Cas lets out a measured breath. His fingers enfold Dean’s. “They were all memorable,” he says, “to me. The third—we found ourselves in the shower. I knew, of course, what your body looks like, inside and out. I didn’t expect to feel so breathless and ridiculous seeing it in the flesh.”

The tips of Dean’s ears go a little hot. “You’re into me,” he says.

“Extremely,” Cas agrees. “We just… kissed. I’m into that, too. And you were buoyant the whole time, like being with me was making you happy. I loved that idea.”

“Oh, yeah? I got good news.”

Cas laughs again. “You were babbling. I could tell you were embarrassed by yourself, but you didn’t stop, either. You had so many ideas—all these things you wanted us to do, Dean. Road trips, movie marathons. You wanted me to fuck you.”

Dean blinks a handful of times in quick succession. “Uh,” he says.

The little smile Cas slings his way proves Cas knows exactly what he’s doing. “I’m just reporting events as they occurred,” he says. “That’s what you said.”

“That’s—uh—okay,” Dean concedes. “What about you, man?”

“I wanted everything,” Cas says, zero hesitation. “Everything two people who want each other could do. I still want that.”

Dean’s chest is overfull, warm. “Okay,” he says. “Yeah. Yeah, me too. Listen—” He squeezes Cas’ hand, maybe too tight, before he climbs his way out of bed. He needs a fresh pair of jeans and some really vigorous alone time with his toothbrush. “Listen,” he repeats to Cas, who’s gazing up at him with a look on his face that scares the shit out of him. “You earned the fuck out of coffee in bed. I’ll be back.”

He’s about three steps away from the kitchen when he remembers Sam’s gonna kill him.

“Please no Crowley,” he blurts out defensively, holding up both hands.

Sam, who’s doing the crossword puzzle in last week’s paper, shoots him an unimpressed look. “Not even Crowley’s up your ass enough to stay on speaker for fourteen hours, dude.” He tucks his pen behind his ear. “I just had to figure I’d have heard or smelled something weird if you two had spontaneously died in there.”

“No, we—uh.” Dean coughs and shuffles toward the coffee machine. It takes a couple solid thumps and some enthusiastic toggling of the power button before it’ll turn on. “We’re good. It was—I don’t think we’re out of the woods on her, but.”

Sam’s mouth quirks into a rueful smile. “Power of love, huh?”

Dean drags a hand across his face. They’re gonna need a new carton of cream soon, he notes as he sets out supplies. “That’s kinda not as wrong as I wish it was.”

“See,” Sam says, quieter. “You two really are each other’s—thing. Whatever. Something that makes sense, something you’ve been wanting to work toward.”

It sounds like there’s gonna have to be a conversation. Not a bad one, but maybe a hard one. Dean hates that idea, that something is going to change and they’re going to have to negotiate it, navigate through being brothers for the billionth time. “Yeah,” he admits. “But, Sam—”

There’s footsteps, then Cas, still rumpled. “I heard your voices,” he says. Apparently he heard them through several layers of concrete wall. Fuckin’ angels.

Dean passes him a mug of drip and a couple sugar cubes. “Mornin’, sunshine.”

“Good morning, Dean. Sam—oh, good, you slept, too.”

“Not a ton else to do,” Sam says, “but yeah. Listen, congratulations. Really.”

“Thank you,” Cas says, calmly earnest.

That makes Sam smile. He holds out a hand for the coffee Dean passes him. “We figured this out and that’s awesome. But the Darkness is still threatening the world at large and we can’t drop the ball on that, either.”

“Hell no,” Dean says.

“I want you guys to hear me out.”

“Of course, Sam,” Cas says.

“Can we just—try and look into this God thing? See if there’s any way it’s legit?”

Dean and Cas exchange a glance of tempered skepticism. “Just.” Bracing himself, Dean slurps down some of his java. “Just not the cage, Sammy. Please. If God is real and he’s dialing you up and he wants you to take a trip downstairs again, he’s not worth our time.”

Sam’s jaw is set, determined, but he nods. “Okay,” he says, “but I know something’s listening when I pray. Don’t laugh. I’m serious.”

Dean’s not even close to laughing. “I’ve heard of weirder shit.”

“It’s certainly possible,” Cas says. “My father took an active part in the world not so long ago, by my standards.” He takes a step closer to Dean and their shoulders brush when they lift their mugs to their mouths. “But Sam, I’ve been down this road before.”

“Okay.” Sam contemplates the gleaming-black surface of his own coffee. “Well, I’ve got an idea. A weird one.”

“I’m all ears,” Dean says.

“I’m gonna call up Chuck.”

“But he’s,” Cas starts, then stops.

“Dead?” Dean finishes.

Sam pulls a face, the face that used to get him out of trouble with Dean almost every single time when they were kids. It’s totally cheating to use it now. “I was gonna tell you guys,” he says, “but… uh, I didn’t.”

“Okay,” Dean says. “Okay.”

Next to him, Cas swaps the hand holding his coffee so he can fit his hand into Dean’s like a declaration. “Okay,” he says too. “I’m ready.”


End file.
